


bishop and knight

by belgard



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Car Sex, Dry Humping, Established Relationship, Finger Sucking, Fluff and Angst, Frottage, Gratuitous Smut, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M, Porn With Plot, Semi-Public Sex, can never get enough of that, fixation towards john's thighs because of course, just cos its so sweet, lovesick paulie, oof, poor boy is going through it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:33:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27993822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belgard/pseuds/belgard
Summary: john’s lips are stilled and paul’s hands are frozen against the steering wheel. the sounds of the hills outside fill the silence, but just like the wall that has built itself to separate them, the windows of the car rejects the intrusion.words are left unspoken before john’s voice cuts through the doomed silence;“i think we should stop.”
Relationships: John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 8
Kudos: 52





	bishop and knight

**Author's Note:**

> hello! it's been a long time since i've delved into writing stories of classic rock musicians again. I used to write beatles fics long ago, perhaps five or six years ago? but i thought i'd try again, years later, just to offer the jon/pol tag in this site one more work.
> 
> disclaimer: i do not own the characters here, and this did not really happen.
> 
> john's hair looks like [this](https://64.media.tumblr.com/43e78c76e44ee28d99453e2e32bcb29e/tumblr_naqnjps0ue1t7u1k3o3_250.gifv) in my mind when i was writing it, so if this helps... you're welcome
> 
> playlist! if you need a tune to read along to (these were some of the songs that I listened to whilst writing!):  
> 1\. [used to be my girl - the last shadow puppets](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=228o3eqlt58)  
> 2\. [sweet dreams, tn - the last shadow puppets](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qBeBqcqdSrk)  
> 3\. [dracula teeth - the last shadow puppets](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dqJHHZ4PA4E)  
> 4\. [oh! darling - the beatles](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=erMgpfiOMSU)
> 
> _note: yes im aware of the abundance of tlsp, but i am simply reliving 2016 nostalgia alright_

  
  
  


“Stop right here.”

Paul presses on the brake pedal, the tip of his Chelsea boot gradually lowering itself to put the car in halt. It slowly comes to a stop right in the middle of the hill that John pointed the directions to, and now Paul is at loss. He breathes in. Lets it out. Keeps his eyes on the steering wheel. Keeps his heartbeat steady. 

But it’s beating so, _so_ fast, that there is absolutely no way John doesn’t hear it. John’s got the perfect ear for music, with the way he’s able to point out a flat note; there is no way he can’t feel the vibration of his thrumming veins, of his rapid-fire heartbeat, of his constricting lungs, of his shivering skin. 

When he looks up, the view is one that is so painfully mediocre, but it doesn’t fail to send a pang of pain in his heart. The moon is up above, blanketed by the night skies with shades of navy blue and black melting upon each other in a seamless gradation. The stars have never looked this bright, and the view of the city is muddled by darkness and faint fog. He can imagine stepping outside, feeling the chilly air and wrapping his coat tighter around himself with a hand upon John’s waist. The way they always do. The way they always have been. 

With John’s head rested on his shoulder, there will never be a feeling more grand than that. 

But John is right next to him now, radiating warmth in a way that makes him fear of what’s to come. It’s ominous. It sends a rush of dread up his spine, in a way that makes him anxious of any small miscalculated step. A wrong thing to say. A wrong look. A wrong touch. 

He swallows his pride, and swallows the lump in his throat. He can hear his own breathing, can hear John’s own. He can hear the low hum of the car’s engine, not yet turned off. He can hear the faint sound of crickets bleating outside, as if they’re yelling at them to ‘bloody get on with it.’ He can hear their _silence_ , with how there is not a single word spoken, but it feels like they are screaming thousands of them at each other. 

He can almost imagine it. 

John’s widened eyes, lips pursed as he spat out words. His cheeks ruby red, hair a mess as a result of his habit of running a hand through it in moments of stress. His fists tightening by his sides like those of a petulant child’s. 

Paul wonders, why does he always find John beautiful, even in moments when rage gets ahold of them both? 

John looks _stunning_ when he’s mad, voice harsh and tone hostile, rising up in pitch. He’s gorgeous when his eyes get teary, eyelashes stuck to one another from the moisture. 

But he’d rather have _that—_ an angry John, a furious John, a maddened John, an emotional John—than… this. Because he doesn’t understand. Because they’re blanketed in silence and unsaid words. 

Paul has his mouth opened to talk when John interrupts him to it.

“Paul.”

His voice is small. Paul’s heart sinks. 

“Yes?”

“Do you. . .” 

Paul turns to look at him then, chest straining in pain when he takes in the sight of his lover. He looks beautiful. 

John sighs, lips pursed to mumble out, “I think we should stop.” He visibly gulps. “ Seeing each other, I mean.”

Paul feels a lurch in his stomach. His chest draws back into a concave, leaving him hollow. 

He lets out a slanted laugh. It sounds _horrible_ , shaky and unsure. But the worst of all, it sounds _scared_. “But we see each other every day, what d’you mean?” he jokes, trying to lighten the mood in a feeble attempt, failing miserably when the heaviness of his emotions seizes him by the throat and cuts off his circulation. 

John looks at him, eyes sharp and brows slightly furrowed. “Paul.” He slightly shakes his head, and the sight reminds Paul of his primary school teacher, shaking his head at him in disapproval as the man bounced the edge of his cane on the palm of his calloused hand. “You know full well what I mean.”

“I… why? I thought... I thought everything was alright?”

“It _was_. I just don’t want to risk anything. It doesn’t do any good for you, or George, or Richie… the fans?”

“What’s us got anythin’ to do with ‘em?”

John squints at him. “What’s us, bloody hell—we’ve got _everything_ to do with ‘em! If we mess up, and even just the _smallest_ fuckin’ step, we’re ruined, Paul! Who’s gonna wan’t ‘ta hear a group with two queers in it singin’ ‘She Loves You’? People _will_ talk—hell, they’ve already talked! I just can’t have that for us, Paul. For George and Richie, shite. And what if they find out about Brian, too? They’ll have his head on a stake. 

“I can’t be. . .secretive, Paul, or whatever the fuck, y’know I can’t. And to be fuckin’ frank, I don’t _want_ to be secretive. I wanna kiss you and hug you and hold your bloody hand in the streets. And that should be okay ‘cos _everyone_ does it! It doesn’t make anythin’ that much different just ‘cos you’re a bloke. Christ, I hate this.”

Paul’s lips feel like they have been glued shut, his tongue is as stone-solid and lying heavily behind his teeth. 

“Why are you acting like you’re bearing all the weight? You think I…” Paul feels like his throat is wrapped around in thorns, each word a cutting edge that serrates the skin of his neck, “You think I _want_ to hide? I don’t. You’re in a relationship with _me_ , John. We’re _together_ , for goodness’ sake. Which means we solve things together, _especially_ when it concerns us.” 

“Brian knows.” 

“What?”

“He knows about us.” John bites on his blunt nail—something he does often when he’s nervous. “He… figured it out.” 

“How?”

“I fucking—don’t _know_ how.” John sighs, eyes a little clouded over. “Guess we’re not that careful after all. But Eppy’s got eyes like a hawk, watchin’ over everyone like he knows every sodding thing about us. I bet he does though.” He shrugs. “That’s _one_ thing I’ll admit. Maybe he’s a sage.”

“Don’t you joke about this, John, not now.”

“I’m not bloody—“ he clicks his tongue, “‘m not jokin’ about it, alright? I’m just.” 

His sentence dies right there, the remnants of the rest that were bound to complete it dispersing into the air like they don’t carry meaning anymore. Paul does not push on it, he lingers onto each word John utters. Steady, he chants in his mind as confusion rushes like a hit of adrenaline. It is sudden. It makes him dizzy, but the thing is, he doesn’t like _this_.

Paul bites on his lip. “I thought we were alright. No one’s found out about us and all that. I made sure of it. _We_ made sure of it.” He rakes a hand through his hair, the remnants of pomade on the tips making his hand in the slightest bit damp. He bites down a curse. “But if he did find out, or anyone else on that matter, I don’t care.”

“Sod off. Quit the whole crap, McCartney, ‘s not a good look for yer pretty face.”

“Aye, shut your gob. I mean it alright, I don’t _care_.” 

“What, so you want our careers jeopardised, ‘s that it?”

“Don’t put words into me mouth, John.”

“What, you’d rather I put somethin’ else?”

Paul shoots him a look. He can feel the corners of his eyes twitching, jaws tightening. He has no reason to be angry. He’s _not_ angry. But he can’t help it. “Quit it.”

“Stop tryin’ to bloody silence me!”

“I’m not!” Paul’s hand slams into the steering wheel, the thud loud and echoing in the warm car, hot with tension so palpable he’s suffocating. He can feel John’s eyes directed onto his hand. He didn’t mean to do it, he _didn’t._ He clenches his teeth, tries to gather some sense into himself, any semblance of equilibrium that he has lost. “I’m not, alright?” 

“You think I want this?” John says, voice small. “Ye think I want to hide like this? I don’t, Paul. I dunno if you see it but I _don’t._ I hate it. I fuckin’ hate it. But making this decision was not easy either. Ye think I wanna leave? No, I don’t. I’ve never been _this_ happy in a long time, you dolt.”

Paul feels his throat constricting, the sides of his eyes burning with the tears that threaten to come out lest he doesn’t keep his emotions under control. He grips on the steering wheel instead, focuses on the view ahead. _I’m the happiest when I’m with you_ , he wants to yell out, but somehow his lips don’t let him.

“And I know. I know it’s hard for you too. And maybe you think I’m reckless. But not about this, Paul. It’s not just _us_ anymore though, is it?” 

Paul, as much as he hates to do it, nods. 

“It’s the band. And if we’re _not_ careful, then we’ll—“

“We’ll be careful,” Paul blurts out, each word coming out of his chattering mouth an attack to contradict any possibility, any assumption, any _guess_ John offers that might lead them to their demise indeed. 

The words linger in the air in a looming existence, vowels and consonants that became the solid proof to his desperation. He admits it this time. He’s desperate—so _what?_ So fucking _what?_

“Paul, come off it.”

John shakes his head like what he said was ridiculous. It’s not, though. It’s not, it isn’t. It makes _sense_ , it does, because it simply requires effort, and that, they can do. They can manage. They can hide, and Paul is willing to do it if it means they never part. 

“I’m serious. We’ll be more careful, we'll think it through. We always do.”

God, a corner of his mind whines; you might as well get on your bloody knees and _beg._ There is no shame however, in the way he utters his words. He speaks fast. He speaks loud. He wants John to know; he wants John to understand. Paul didn’t mean to fall this hard, but he landed violently—and now his heart is all on the floor now, strewn, all for John to see and gather into his hands. 

John lets out an incredulous laugh. “You say it like it’s a damn walk in the park.” 

He pats down the front of his trousers, most likely to search for a pack of cigarettes, huffing out a curse when there isn’t any. It has become their form of escapism, the cigarette, as if a stick can resolve all their problems in one intake of breath. Smoke can fill their lungs, perhaps, but that’s the only way _something_ can fill their cold, empty hearts that have been so desensitised by everything they have been through. 

“Thing is,” Paul says, “I’m not breaking up with you, alright. I dunno about you, but I’ve fallen for you. Whatever that means. Arse over tit. Head over heels, all of that. I _love_ you, in every sense of the word, and if you feel the same then I’m willing to figure all of this out. With you.” 

He lets his lips pour out the words this time. No more thinking. Whatever his mind wants to say, he does. Whatever his heart craves, he shall try to satisfy it. He’s willing to try. Dear lord, he is willing. 

He takes a hold of John’s hands, damp with sweat just like his own. A cricket noise outside breaks the tension. 

“ _Together_ , John. D’you get what I mean?” 

He can see John nibbling on his lip, and the hesitance eats him from the inside out. He feels it now, _panic,_ the rush of it nauseating. Instead of the adrenaline, he receives the dread. His throat is bone dry, the temple of his head incessantly pounding like a bass riff. The rhythm is off, an ugly sound that pulsates beneath his skin, rushing in his blood. He can’t breathe. Maybe it’s the turtleneck.

“John. _Listen_ to me. This ain’t your fight. It’s _ours_ , alright? Whatever we do, you bet your arse I’ll be by your side.”

He’s met with silence, one that cuts through his skin. He has never wanted to leave his car _this_ badly, as it has always been a safe space for him to escape the ruckus of fans that scarcely leave their side. The door handle is _right_ there, crying out for him, begging to be gripped so he can make his escape. The outside world is tempting now, with the hills empty and the skies jet black. 

He swallows a lump in his throat. “I’ll always be by your side. Doesn’t bloody matter if we stop, I’ll still be with you. If you want out then so be it. I don’t want to keep you… imprisoned, or summat like that. But I’ll always be with ye. _Always_.”

“Oh, Paulie,” John whispers—the corner of his lips slanted upwards ever so slightly when Paul turns to look at him—saccharine sweet and just teetering on the edge of taking the piss out of him. “Always the sodding romantic. You know _just_ the right words to say to make a lad swoon.”

Paul bites back a smile. “Do I, now?

John hums. “Yeah you do,” he says. 

“So what d’you think, love?” His heartbeat falters when John’s head snaps up at the pet name, and his body flourishes when he notices a faint glint of fondness in John’s warm eyes. He ignores the fearing ache in his chest, the vexing hesitation, and instead focuses on putting up a teasing little smile on his face as he widens his eyes up at his lover. “Still thinkin’ about breaking up with me then?”

John exhales, stretching his head back against the headrest. “God, I feel like a bird.”

Paul flashes him a look, and John makes a face. “Not sure, then?” he asks, embarrassingly aware of the smallness of his voice, the hesitance in there rampant and hanging heavy to each word that falls out of his tongue like a physical proof of his own fear. Fear of losing _this_ , losing love, losing happiness. 

Losing John. 

He rests a hand against the top of the klaxon, thumb caressing the dark leather underneath his skin. He focuses on the texture. Focuses on the stark difference between the black and the paleness of his own skin, amplified by the half light. He tries to control his breathing, clearing his mind when John’s silence fills the car for far too long. He swallows down the lump in his throat, the dryness of his mouth suffocating him, zipping his lips close from any more attempts to let out words that he has not thought clearly before letting them spill away. 

Just as he’s about to let his eyelids succumb to the dreadful feeling and shut themselves close, he blinks at the weight of John’s head against his shoulder, his warmth and scent heady when Paul inhales. He can feel his heart float in the centre, right in the axis of uncertainty. Questions flow in his mind like they’re written by machines, one after another engulfing his head with more dread. He closes his eyes instead, shutting them out as he tilts his head to rest it upon John’s own. 

His presence grounds him, keeping him steady as he wonders. 

The uncomfortable position is almost comical, and in any other situation Paul might just tease him about it, but tonight? He wants nothing more than to have John by his side, no matter the words that remain unsaid between them. Those sentences might be thicker than a wall, but Paul remains determined to crumble them down just to get to him. 

He feels a cold touch right against his hand, light and soft like it’s simply hovering. He looks down to see John’s hand a breath away from his, the sight wrenching him to his core. He bites down on his lip, gathering all courage to slot his fingers between John’s own, intertwining them together like lost puzzle pieces. 

When he feels John tightening his hold, Paul’s chest swells.

They always fit just like this—easy. Effortless. Almost meant to be, like a strange occurrence of fate that makes Paul laugh. 

“D’you really mean all that?” John’s voice cuts through the silence lowly, not louder than a whisper. 

“I did.”

“. . .Why?”

Paul furrows his brows, stomach tightening. “I—what d’you mean, why?”

John sighs. “I mean why, like _why_? Why d’you even love me, Paul? I’m a bloody wreck, a handful, a chore, or whatever the hell people like me are called. If there _are._ I’ll bet ya can never find anyone as insufferable as me, though. Name the price; ye make the call.”

He remains in silence for a while. He lets the words linger in the air while he simply _thinks_. 

“You’re not a wreck, John,” he manages to croak out, throat sandpaper-rough. “Why d’you even think of yourself like that? And even. . .even if you are, then maybe I’m a nutcase cos I’m _mad_ for you. Even if you’re a. . .a _wreck_ , I don’t know, maybe that’s what attracted me to you. I don’t know, fuck.”

“See? You don’t know.” There is an air of finality in his voice that Paul loathes. John is higher than an aeroplane whenever he wins a battle, or in this case, an argument. Or a debate. Or anything that tickles his competitive bone. But Paul doesn’t see this as an argument, not when what they have is on the line. 

“No, that’s not what I mean,” he says in retaliation. “I don’t know, cos I simply don’t _know_ , John! I don’t know. . .feelings, cos I _don’t_ try to describe them. Maybe I spill them out in writing, but they’re still not concrete, you know.” John makes a move to try and let his hand out of Paul’s grip, but Paul tightens his hand with determination. And perhaps desperation. “John. _I don’t know_. But I know I’m in love with you.”

A second passes like an excruciating time bomb, ready to blow at any second. Paul bites down onto his lips, chest hollow. 

“Good little Paulie fallin’ for little old me?” 

A hesitant chuckle is forced out of his lips. John is unpredictable in that way, using humour in unfitting situations, serious in light-hearted ones. “Why, got any problem with that?”

“Haven’t got any. It’s ridiculous, ‘s all.” 

“What’s so bloody ridiculous about it?”

John sends him a look. 

He gives in. “Fine. Maybe you’re insufferable at times.” John nods. “And downright bratty.” Another nod. “And sometimes you test my patience.” Another nod. “And yer a damn handful.” Another, albeit more enthusiastic, nod. “But I don’t think I can live a single day in my life without you being insufferable in it. And I don’t think I’m always all that nice either. But y’know.”

“My oh my.” John puts a hand on his chest, his eyelashes fluttering. “ Are you gonna propose to me, McCharmly?”

“Sod off.” He might as well flip him the bird. 

“You’ve got the words ready, I see. Just go get the ring and we’ll be set.”

“John.” 

“Alright, alright,” John raises his hands in mock surrender, a pretty smile gracing his lips. “I’ll lay off.” 

“But be honest with me.” 

“Hm?”

“You… do you really want it to be over?”

John sighs, running a hand through his hair. “You know damn well I don’t.”

They remain that way then, head turned to face each other in the dim moonlight, Paul’s eyes mapping and tracing every bit of John’s features, his lines, his creases, the jutting of his bones. He knows John’s vision is a blur from the lack of glasses, but Paul feels as if John can see him clear as day with those bright eyes. Paul can look at them forever, losing himself in them, drowning like a besotted man. 

He reaches out, hand cupping the curve of John’s jaw, the softness of his chin. He caresses the tender skin there, feeling the warmth blossom beneath his touch as his thumb travels to trace the slant curvature of John’s bottom lip. He presses to test its plushness, and John stays still, eyes not faltering. Paul can feel the gentle puffs of breath against his finger, and he focuses on its beat— _one two three, one two three_ —a calming tempo that slows his beating heart. 

And then his chest eats him from the inside, burying him in the feelings that have hazed his mind, and he surrenders. He gives it all and leans in, holds his breath. He captures John’s narrow lips in his, smiling as he faintly remembers that his thumb is still there separating them like a bony wall. He drops his hand and settles it in the crook of John’s neck, the warmth of his skin blossoming like a spreading fire. 

John is whip-quick to reply, moving his lips in tandem as he lets out these little breaths and faint sounds that surround Paul’s body in heat. Paul gently bites on his lover’s lip and pulls at it, dragging the reddening skin into his space before he nibbles on it once more, soothing the dull pain. 

They fill the gaps. They fit the pieces. Soften the edges. 

Paul realises then, that he can never live without this. How could he ever? How will he survive—the Shakespearean-dramatic questions fill his mind, although he reckons that what _is_ infatuation without drama? What are feelings without extravagance? He sees that the only way it can be important is if he _feels_ tremendously, and he does not know how to label many feelings that combine and fuse in his heart, his mind, but he knows when they are real. 

And this is as real as it can be.

Like a hand smacked upon the hard surface of a table in the midst of silence, John’s breathing transforms into something ragged against him, one that swallows him whole and steals his breath away greedily. John takes all of it, his air supply, his heat, his cold hands—and he opens his mouth in compliance, tongue searching for John’s own in despair. 

John’s hands, strong and dexterous, begin to dig the tips of their fingers into Paul’s shoulder blades like they are the only thing keeping him grounded in this wretched world, and John pulls and pulls and _pulls_ , tugging at the fabric and clawing at Paul’s skin, breath hot, hot, _hot,_ filling Paul’s mind in a haze that is so palpable that he cannot think at all. 

It is no longer smoke, or music, or those little pills that make him feel like he’s floating that fill the empty spot in his heart. It’s John, and the way he touches him, the way he responds to _everything_ he has got to give. The way he kisses him, the way he talks to him. The way he smiles, and the way John seems to be sure that he has got Paul’s heart clasped tightly in his grasp, never to be let go. 

Paul grunts, hands fumbling at the eagerness his lover displays, fast-paced and tender at the same time. No words are spoken, but Paul can hear them crystal clear, like they are uttered right against his ear. 

“John, do you really think—“

“Paul, please.” The words feel desperate against his lips, and Paul wishes to breathe it all in. There is urgency in the way John moves, and somehow, that urgency travels up Paul’s spine as well, matching his lover’s pace like machinery. “Please, I want this, just shut up and. . . and just—”

The conflicting feelings from their conversation combines with the arousal flirting over the edges of his being, threatening to consume him, makes him heady. It makes him feel like he’s below a dazing cloud, all the more possessed with the desire to have John in his arms once more, too scared to let go lest he leaves.

“Alright, alright, I get it, love.”

He can feel John’s blunt nails digging themselves on the scratchy fabric of the collar of his turtleneck, and when he looks down, he can see John’s pale fingers a beautiful, stark contrast against black, grabbing at him endlessly. He tightens his grip on John’s narrow waist, gathering any inch of the man that he can manage, searing the feeling into the back of his mind, imprinting a John-shaped mark that burns white hot. He reaches up to take a breath, but John denies him that chance, capturing his lips with a deep intent that Paul knows he’s trying to send through his kiss. 

John lets out a grunt, furrowing his eyebrows petulantly as his legs manoeuvre themselves until he moves past the gear stick to land on Paul’s seat, straddling his thighs. He sits tall, looking down at Paul with tar-black eyes, cheeks ruddy with blood that arousal sends up high, and Paul can only revel in the sight, unbelievably enamoured of the man he can call his. He puts his hands on the dip of John’s waist, splaying his fingers wide as they fit to press against the curve that the fitted shirt he wears accentuates. 

He pushes his hips up, stomach tightening when the sound of John’s choked up moan fills the car. His grip hardens, and John grinds down, pressing their hardness against each other. 

“Trousers off, yeah?” Paul gasps, his fingers grappling for the buttons of his lover’s garments. John nods blankly against his skin, hand shaking as he fumbles to get his trousers off in such confinement. He lets out a little curse— _‘bugger’—_ and Paul erupts into little giggles that feels so out of place, but so _right_. John’s eyebrows are furrowed deep, forehead creasing with frustration when he finds out he can’t get them off when his knees are too busy keeping his body up on top of Paul’s lap. “Careful, love.”

“Fuck— _hmph_ —I’m trying.” 

Instead, John grunts and moves back to his seat with a heave and takes it off, shrugging the fabric down onto the dirty floor of the car. He doesn’t seem fazed at all, lips parted as he lets out steady exhales. Paul keeps his eyes on him, leaning back onto his own seat as he reclines it back, allowing more room above and in front of him. It seems as if blood has rushed onto the apples of John’s fair cheeks, tinting them rose red, along with the outlines of his chest that is exposed by his unbuttoned shirt, its shade blossoming like a flourishing flower under the extortion of his want. 

John makes everything explicit, he always does. He makes show of his desires, proclaims what he wants to say, does what he wants to do.

And now? 

John is looking at him with darkened eyes, hazy, his lashes falling upon them like curtains and casting a shadow upon the skin of his cheeks. He moves once more, seated on top of Paul. His lips are bitten red and shiny, cheeks ruddy and tongue wet. His thighs are pale and smooth beneath him, spread on the leather seat with his palms pressed upon them. The Y-fronts he’s wearing has ridden up on his thighs, revealing more and more skin with each gaze Paul lays upon him. 

“Come here,” Paul whispers, and John eagerly leans in, breathing hard. Paul swallows his air, his breaths, his warmth. He’s suffocating—lungs filled with John, John, _John,_ like an endless cycle that sets him alight with the desire to keep him safe and close to his arms. To keep him _his,_ away from the worries and burden anything or anyone else has put on so mercilessly upon _his_ Johnny. 

John’s bare thighs are bracketing his hips, knees planted on the leather seat to keep him up, this time steadier and firmer, muscles pulled taut with confidence as he sits on his thighs, eyes wide and sure like he _knows_ he belongs there. Paul tilts his head up to sneak a look at his lover above him, only to see John gasping for air as he feels him circle his arms around his neck. 

He feels the tip of John’s index finger nudging his chin, making it tip up for a short while before his touch disappears like a fleeting dust. 

“Hey, Paulie.” 

He smiles, all teeth. “Hey there, Johnny.”

“I love you.”

And there it is. One sentence. Three words. The domination of vowels, John’s lips opening as he breathes the word out, voice thin. The consonants bending upon his tongue, the tip of it tapping once, and then letting go. His teeth biting down upon his lip as the letter _V_ follows his Northern brogue in the way he says his _O’_ s, reminding Paul of his hometown more and more, even so now that they’re in London somewhere. Perhaps its outskirts. 

Those _bloody_ three words. Blunt and sharp-edged at the same time, pointed at Paul’s being to render him weak in the knees.

His heart melts into liquid, all there for John’s deft hands to gather and keep as his own, just like the way Paul keeps his. 

Paul breathes in. Breathes out. 

He reaches his hand up to lay itself upon the centre of John’s cheek, feeling the warmth radiating beneath the supple skin there. He brushes his thumb upon his cheekbone, sharp as it is, feeling bits of his eyelashes sweeping upon his own skin, teasing. Pretty. He presses on the moles on his face, and strokes the small one near his left eye, a kind that no one else but _him_ can see. It is no more than a dot, as if it was drawn by a pen. Dotted once, and then left as it is. He swallows. He lets his heart beat the way it wants.

He brushes over the corners of John’s almond eyes, warmer than anything he has ever seen. He brushes over the tip of his thick eyebrows, wondering how they compliment his features just so. He brushes the tip of his index finger upon his aquiline nose, biting back a smile when John lets out a little whine of annoyance. He brushes the soft edge of his jaw, feeling the skin move beneath his finger when he sees John gulp. He lets his fingers grab gently at his chin, tilting it up, making John stare down at him. 

John simply blinks, lips slightly parted. 

Paul tucks his chin back down, his fingers having a hold of themselves now, free from his control. He swipes his thumb along the faint lines of John’s bottom lip, its curvature a mystery. He brushes upon his cupid’s bow, a soft weapon that has shot its arrows through Paul’s heart and stole it. He says nasty words with those lips, utter them with no abandon. He spits curses at people who offend him. He preaches, always so forward with what he believes in.

But he sings praises with those lips, utters his appreciation. He loves with those lips. He confesses. He gently scolds. He kisses. 

So Paul presses the tip of his tongue down onto the plush surface of his bottom lip, as now, his lips are silent. No words uttered at all, yet Paul thinks there are a thousand words in the way he looks at him. 

He feels John’s hands grabbing his wrist, guiding them as he looks up, only to see John ducking his head down slightly, letting his thumb enter his velvet mouth. Paul bites back a moan, the feeling almost heavenly against his warmed skin as John goes down and down and _down,_ tongue curling as Paul feels his knuckle presses against his velvet lips, at its edge. 

“Oh…”

John hums, the sounds sending vibrations upon his skin. His head blanks, pulse hammering; his blood rushes wild, clear with intent as desire swallows him whole. John begins to bob his head up and down, gently, making a coy show of letting his eyes fall shut, lashes casting darker shadows upon his ruddy cheeks. 

“Ye haven’t got yer trousers off,” John mumbles against his finger, words jumbled up as he looks down, and back up, those _bloody_ lashes flitting back and forth like a feathery fan that makes Paul’s blood stop running beneath his veins. 

Paul hates to look away. But he does, looking down to see his trousers still intact. He mutters a quick curse, gently pulling is finger out of John’s mouth to blindly tug at his belt, fingers shaking as if he’s in sub-zero temperature. 

John, the bastard, just sits back against the steering wheel and watches him struggle with his own clothing, eyes full of mirth. The moonlight behind him surrounds his disheveled auburn hair like a halo, making it even more difficult for Paul to focus on the task at hand. 

He bites on his lip, sighing loud once he has got the metal out of the hole that secures his belt. His fingers reach for the buttons, then the zipper, and he attempts to lift his hips to let the fabric loosen up around his hips and thighs. John spreads his thighs more, perhaps in an attempt to lend him more room, but bloody hell, it is hard to pay attention when his lover demands all of his gaze and mind. 

“A hand?” Paul meekly gets out. 

John quietly nods, visibly biting back a smile as he leans over to help get Paul’s trousers off and into the ground below, letting the fabric pool over the dirt-stained pedals. 

He only manages to huff out a quick breath before John steals it from him once more, capturing his weak lips in a kiss that renders him dizzy. This feeling—what more can he ask for? The tips of his fingers tingle, his toes curling from the way their lips move against one another, and he feels like he’s under an electric current that sets his body ablaze with every little touch that they share. 

They are flashing amber light, radiating heat, dizzy, dizzy, _dizzy_ , and Paul grapples for any hold over the gravity that supposedly surrounds them. 

“Wish you can bugger me right here,” he hears John breathe against his ear, hot and dark in a way that makes his blood rush and his stomach tighten. The tone of his voice is lowered, and Paul is dead certain of just how much John is aware of this amplified attraction of his. A little minx, a wicked part of Paul’s mind supplies; John is the type to be aware of people’s intense attraction to him and uses it for his own good, abusing the intoxicating feeling of having his eyes and words _all_ over until you’re on the verge of fainting. “Wish everyone could see.” 

The implication of that sends a shiver down his spine, the quick rush heady and delectable. He imagines, just what would it be like, for the people that deny their relationship and declare it wretched, what would those people say when they see that John belongs to him, and he the other? What would it be like, just for them to see John seated in his lap, in his arms, in the euphoric bubble that forms whenever they’re close to one another? Just what would it be like, to hold hands at the end of their concerts and hold them up together, showing the world that they’re real? 

“Can’t, love.” 

His words sound strangled to his own ears, teeth clattering and barricading his sentence. 

Paul brushes a short strand of John’s hair back out of habit even if it didn’t cover his face at all, tucking it behind his ear. He’s just teasing, because John _always_ looks bashful after he does so; John casts his gaze down and bites at the corner of his lip—a reaction of his that proves him right. 

“Can’t or won’t?” John raises a challenging brow up at him. What a tart. 

“Both.” Paul breathes out, sending him a small smile just enough to let him know. He leans a bit closer, tucks his head into the warm crook of his lover’s shoulder, enough to smell the faint scent of his new cologne - a birthday present from George if he’s correct - and inhales it deep. He bites into the juncture and smirks against the soft skin there when John squirms beneath his hands. Always so sensitive. “I’ll do ye later, if we’ve got proper time and place.”

John pokes him in the cheek, the blunt tip of his nail making him wince from the indentation. “Yer a right knob, y’know that?”

Unbelievable, he thinks to himself. 

Paul runs a hand through his lover’s auburn hair, feeling the softening strands melt under his touch. It’s a beautiful thing, his hair, but it’s _terribly_ stubborn, as John often says in the mornings of their tours— _This sodding strand won’t bloody stay put!_ It goes whenever it wants, points to whatever direction it pleases and no product except for heated tongs can tame it. And even then, sometimes he needs a bit of styling product to follow after. 

But this time, it’s recently cropped and almost salon-soft. No heated tongs and electric dryers. No hairspray or the sodding pomades and gels. 

It’s just _him_ , and his hair that Paul loves so much. 

“You look handsome,” he says. He ruffles John’s hair, and the man squints his eyes shut like a teased child. “The hair suits you.”

John eyes dart upwards, brows furrowing when he realises how he can’t see his hair the way Paul does, and he grins at the sight. 

“Does it now?”

Paul nods. “Yeah. You’re beautiful.” 

He wants to drown beneath the ground a little at the childish confession, the mindless remark, but it’s what he feels, what he _sees_ . He can’t lie, not when it stabs at his heart and wrenches his gut. He can’t lie, and he won’t. He wants John to hear about every little thing that Paul loves about him, as shamelessly indulgent _and_ virginal it seems, with John’s own vexed attitude towards it, but Paul is relentless. He wants to be certain, and he wants John to see that certainty in him. 

John scoffs in reply. “Bugger off, ‘m not. And ‘m not asking for a sodding pick me up. ‘m just sayin’ that you’re a true lyricist, you are, bringin’ over your poetic crap into yer real life an’ all.”

“Poetic crap?” Paul stares at him, searching for something there. John looks away. “‘s not crap, I’m telling the truth. What I feel, you know.” 

“Yeah yeah, and George isn’t smokin’ four packs a day.”

“Oi, quit it. You’re gorgeous, you know.” He presses his knuckle to the centre of John’s forehead and pushes it, teasing him endlessly until he narrows his eyes and bares his teeth at Paul like a disturbed puppy. “Yer always so damn certain you’re gonna prove me wrong but this one thing I understand dead clear. And it's a fact, you know. It’s a proven fact. I saw it once in the encyclopaedia, written in big bold bloody letters that said yer a beautiful bastard.”

His lover snorts, casting his gaze aside as Paul feels his own lips quirk up into a smirk at the fleeting sight of John’s ruddy cheeks. “Arsehole.”

As swift as the crack of a whip, Paul feels a sudden delicious friction on his crotch, the mind-numbing knowledge burning him from the inside, the fact that John, the treacherous little thing, just ground down on his core and left him gasping. His hands immediately move to grab onto John’s waist, pressing into the covered skin there before he grumbles, hurriedly pulling onto the hem of John’s shirt to get it out of the confines of his trousers just to cop a touch of John’s silk-soft skin.

Almost like a flicker of a light switch, they turn. The air around them grows warmer again, and as Paul’s skin grows overheated once more, John’s movements turn frantic, that look in his eyes significantly darker like the dimming sky. 

“You bloody—” he chokes out. 

John snickers and stretches a hand until it’s rested onto the spot on the headrest. “Paulie, Paulie…” he tuts like a vexed school teacher. He arches his back, pressing his groin flush now as he stares down at him with that wicked sneer. “Got a problem?”

Paul grits his teeth and holds back a smile. “Not in the bloody slightest.”

His hand grabs for the hem of John’s knickers, pulling them down until the head of his cock peeks out from beneath the fabric, keeping it down halfway just so John can feel the friction when Paul brings him closer, forcing his hips down to grind against his own. 

John gasps, the intake of breath sharp and _too_ sudden, as if he’s going to choke on it. He can feel John’s blunt nails digging into the side of his neck, his shoulder, the pain amplifying the pleasure. 

“I love you, John, I do, I do _-I do,_ ” Paul chants like a prayer, hands cradling every bit of him and gathering them into his arms. He pinches his eyes shut, focusing on the way their bodies move against each other so effortlessly, like they’ve always meant to be. He doesn’t believe in fate, or destiny, or prophecy, but if the world moves for _something_ , he knows that his entire universe centres on John, his love. He doesn’t know if he should proclaim what he feels, but the night is _theirs_ and the hills belong to them alone, and he feels like the world deserves to know. “I love—“

John groans, the end of his voice hitching up into a filthy moan that makes the pit of Paul’s stomach burn hot. He throws his head back before leaning close to him, whispering hotly into his mouth, “Fucking ‘ell—I love you too, but Christ, shut up!”

He feels John slotting his warm lips against his, the movement messy and unadulterated. They’re on fire. He’s losing his head. John moves his body against him relentlessly, and he does the same with every power he can muster. John is breathing, heaving, struggling— _beautiful_ . Paul is gasping, drowning, desperate— _in love._

He has never been truly sure about love ever in his life. What it’s about, what’s all the rave, what’s its importance. He always wonders why his Da always tells him to find himself a good girl to marry and find love. What’s so bloody great about it? he asked himself once as he slicked back his hair to a D.A. in front of the mirror. 

But with John in his arms, leaning against him, smiling against his skin and pressing a kiss onto his cheek, he wonders if _this_ is what everybody’s been talking about. 

A broken sob escapes his lips, before he places his fingers around the warmth of John’s throat, the pulse beating rapid beneath his skin. John lets out a gasp when Paul tentatively tightens his hold — just the way John likes it — the sound sending waves of arousal coursing through his being. He brings John closer by his neck, his lips finding their way to the redness of John’s ear as he nips on the warming skin, smiling against it when he hears John whine and keen.

“—Bastard.” 

Paul feels laughter bubbling in his throat, and he shakes against John. “Hm.”

He leans back against the seat, keeping his hand circled around his lover’s blotchy throat, marks of red and indigo painting his smooth skin like a pretty little artwork. He lets his thumb trail upwards to graze the corner of John’s bottom lips, the surface now swollen and delectably scarlet. The sight of it drives him mad; his blood rushes beneath his skin, primal desire sent aspike.

“Oh, fuck,” John gasps, mouth agape. Paul bites his bottom lip at the sight as he pushes his thumb deeper into John’s mouth, grazing the sharpness of his teeth and the hot air of his harsh breath. John growls and grabs onto his wrist like a madman, his hold vice-like when he keeps it still. Paul is helpless; he can only thrust upwards into the mirroring hardness, the rough material of their pants grazing the swollen tip of their sensitive cocks like a slow form of torture. 

John sends him a swift, dark look, though one with a certain kind of mischief that he cannot miss, before he lolls his tongue out and closes his mouth around the bony finger of Paul’s thumb, closing his cheeks around it as if he’s blowing him. Paul lets out a long, hearty groan at the feeling of his velvet mouth, knowing just _exactly_ how it’d feel around his cock. John bobs his head up and down like a starved man, and Paul can only watch, head in a daze and mind delirious. 

His other hand moves to grab John’s waist as he places the balls of his feet firm against the floor as leverage. He can feel the residual dirt pushing onto the skin of his feet but he ignores them, never once minding the numbness it’ll give him. He grips onto John with more firmness, leans forward, and thrusts up with deep intent. He heaves, eyes trained on John. 

His lover has his mouth open, wanton, and his eyes are fluttered shut. He pants, and Paul bites back a moan at the sight of his thumb, its tip pressed firmly at the centre of John’s tongue like a gag. Eyes clouded, Paul grinds up once more, and John lowers himself by spreading his thighs wider and wider, the skin shifting beautifully against Paul’s own. Mindless except for the pleasure they have both created, Paul feels emboldened enough to put the side of his unoccupied fingers beneath John’s chin and pushes his thumb down to keep his mouth open, and John complies. His obedience is _stunning_ , and Paul feels heat burn hot in his groin. 

He slows his movement down, focusing more onto the wetness that slowly gathers on the tip of his thumb. John’s eyes flutter open and Paul feels his heart skip a beat when their eyes meet, like something has struck sharply into him, splitting his body in two. John’s eyes are madly dilated, almost black. He doesn’t doubt that his own are much in a better state. 

Drunk on his arousal, Paul can feel himself losing his composure. John’s gaze turns challenging, and Paul is adamant not to lose. 

He breathes slowly through his nose and focuses his gaze on John’s open mouth, his tongue pinned down and his Adam's apple moving as he swallows down with slight difficulty. He brushes the dip in the centre of John’s spine and moves his thumb in an up-and-down motion on his lover’s tongue. Spit gathers around his finger, so much that it has dribbled down John’s chin and down onto the length of wrist. 

Looking up, he can see the ruddiness of John’s cheeks, the scarlet shade tinting the apples. Always so bashful. 

He gathers the spit on his thumb and spreads it across the plush surface of John’s bottom lip, making the redness there shiny and all the more delectable to his depraved eyes. John’s lids are half-mast, eyes clouded over with something dark and primal, and he arches his back, pushing himself closer and _closer_ until the atoms that separate them give over their reign. 

Paul’s skin is boiling beneath his clothes, and he can feel the condensation on John’s waist, the tantalising curve of it growing warmer. The way his body tapers down the middle reminds Paul faintly of John’s favourite acoustic, and the smoothness of polished wood is reflected in the soft skin of John’s torso and back, spotless and unblemished. Paul almost grins at the thought; he’s playing John like an instrument, plucking _his_ strings and touching him everywhere to coax a melody out of his open mouth. 

And John’s heavy voice drips like honey in his ears like no other orchestra could ever do. 

With his open, inviting mouth and the growing dampness on his skin prominent, Paul lays down all thoughts and surrenders to his wants. He leans in close, eyes half-lidded and madly heavy, and licks into the warmth of John’s mouth, pressing his tongue against his. 

John groans. Paul can simply smile. 

“Bein’ a pricktease as per usual, eh, McCartney?” 

Paul snorts, chest bubbling with the beginnings of a giggle. He rests his head on the crook of John’s swan neck and rides out his laughter there. 

“Shut up.”

“Mhm. Make me.”

“Cliché.”

“What d’ya want me to say then?”

“I dunno.”

“Now _that’s_ a cliché.” 

“Don’t think that’s one.”

“Nope, it is.” As if to make a point, John grips onto the leather of the headrest, hard enough for Paul to feel the pressure of his fingers through the surface’s shifting, and spreads his thighs, making the plushness of his legs almost _melts_ against Paul’s own skin. He can see John biting down onto his lip for a swift moment, a fleeting portrait, before he grips onto both of their cocks, flushing their hardness together, and fucks right into the circle of his fist. The harsh drag is delectable, and with every movement of John’s hips, Paul’s cock receives the same kind of pleasure.

“Oh, and you’re calling _me_ a pricktease?” Paul raises an eyebrow up at him, voice strained. His body is pulled taut, strung out, heady on pleasure and the defiance of release. “Try bein’ me for a minute. You’re gonna come in _seconds_ at the sight of you on yer own lap.”

“Why?” His eyebrows furrow a bit, mouth downturned in a frown as Paul watches a bead of sweat trickle down the side of his cheek. “Cos I’m lookin’ like a right slag?” 

“Nah.” He thumbs the condensation away. “Cos you’re you.” 

John shoots him a little look, one that makes his eyes look big and glassy, warm and earnest. The tinge of red blossoming like blotches on his cheeks sends Paul’s poor little heart racing. “Leave off. And contrary to yer beliefs, I am not _that_ much of a narcissist to come by lookin’ at meself alone.”

“Mhm. You’re saying that cos you haven’t _really_ seen yourself.” Paul snakes both of his hands onto the plushness of John’s arse and squeezes, pulling on the flesh and teasing the edge of his hole just enough to make John’s mouth fall open. It’s almost like clockwork. 

“Yeah, well, show me then.” John’s head falls sideways, revealing the glint of sweat on the line of his neck, moonlight reflecting off of it. There is a sullied look in his eyes, one that sends Paul’s blood thrumming beneath his overheated skin. “Cos I can’t really see meself, though, can I?”

A growl wretches itself out of Paul’s throat, something a little too predatory that it makes himself flush deep red, and his heart beats rapid as he leans in and bites into the curved edge of John’s jaw, sinking his teeth to the sweat-blanketed skin until John lets out a keen that surrounds the cramp space of the car. Paul’s prick twitches at the noise, and he digs his fingers deeper into the skin of John’s thighs and arse, trying to grasp every bit of him and sear them into his own body. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” John pants, and Paul moves to press wet, open-mouthed kisses along the line of his jaw and neck, mapping the curves there. He can’t ever get enough of him.

Paul cants his hips up, rutting on John’s hardness with nothing on his mind except for the pleasure they share. The smell of sex and sweat fills the space, making him heady with the overwhelming influx. 

John arches his back and stiffens, chest pressed close to Paul’s own, breath hot against his ear. “Paul— _can’t_ —“ he lets out a choked moan and stills as Paul grips his arse to keep him grounded, right the way he wants him to be. “ _Shit_ , fucking— _take me_ , Paul, have me all you want—I _need it_ —“

The way he offers himself sends a rush of arousal burning low in the pit of his stomach, intensifying the existing desire there, and he leans in, presses a kiss against the raw plush of John’s lips. That is a part of John that he discovered not too long ago, this surrender of dominance and the offering of his submission; it makes Paul’s head spin and his body shiver. Paul’s blood runs hot at the sight of John on his knees and bruising them, and his eyes cloud over at the feeling of John sitting on his thigh, reigning his spot, or having John bent over against the wall, the table, a settee, an amp. 

A grand piano, once; which the memory lingers in the back of his mind and teases him at late sleepless nights when he’s all by himself. (But John needn’t know.) 

This exchange of having and letting, taking and surrendering is a mutualistic affair, he supposes. Paul has always liked having control just as much as he liked losing it, but when John opens his mouth for him and lets him control his pace, have him the way he wants, he has never been so mad about control ever before. Control, he ponders, is a tempting thing, but it’s only the kind of control that _pleases_ John that makes him shoot off just like a rocket, nothing else. 

His hand travels to grasp the underside of John’s pale thigh, groaning loud at the softness that breaches his hands. 

“These— _fucking_ —thighs,” he makes a point by smacking it and grabbing it firm, panting desperate when John keens at the sensation, driving him to grind up harder. “Can touch them all day. You give Bardot a damn good run for her money.” 

John throws his head back and drops his mouth open, jaw lax. “Yeah?” he asks, voice dipped in honey and mischievous intent. The sight of him slightly bouncing on his lap is simply intoxicating, and Paul’s mouth runs dry. “W—well ye can h—have yer filthy ways with them next time.” 

Shit. 

His mind runs, imagination wandering _places,_ and the image of John with his slicked up thighs, glistening with lubricant as he tightens them together for Paul to use is simply mind-numbing. He really ought to control this obsession with his thighs before it goes out of hand, his mind offers. But he refuses, smacking his own voice of reason behind as he presses harder on the thigh he has beneath his hand, using his hold on it as leverage to pull John’s body down and cant his hips up, intensifying the friction. 

“You gonna let me do that, Johnny? Or have ye thought about it before when you’re wankin’ one off while you’re alone?” Paul whispers, voice ragged as he nips on the skin of John’s ear. The man nods, a bit unhinged like he’s drunk a few glasses beforehand. “You’re _so_ good for me, love. So good.”

“Just for you, just for you,” John chants in a jumbled manner, thighs tensing as his eyes shut themselves close. 

Paul runs a hand through John’s hair, tucking a stray piece of it behind his ear, before his hand tumbles down to cup his cheek in his hand. John leans into the touch, eyelashes fluttering as he gently rocks back into Paul’s rhythm. 

“You’re my pretty boy, aren’t ye?” Paul asks, no louder than a whisper, half-teasing as he can feel the corner of his lips twitching up even as he focuses on the pleasure. Such a one-track mind, he thinks. He expects John to scoff, curse, and grind down hard in retaliation, gaining his wicked sense of revenge, but his mind spins instead when a ruddy-cheeked John simply bites down on his lip and nods, hair bobbing about with his movements, lips parted as he whispers out, “Yours, aye. Only yours.”

Paul lets out a wrecked sob, holding John’s cheeks with both hands as he brings his head down to press a kiss on his forehead. He lets his lips linger, before moving down to steal a kiss of his own out of John’s gasping lips. 

“ _My_ pretty Johnny,” he says against those lips as he bites into one of them. His lover lets out a pleased hum that Paul breathes in. “All mine.”

John nods. “All yours,” he says, voice slurred. He sounds the way he does when he’s properly intoxicated: relaxed and heady, voice full of his breath and eyes in a daze. “And yer mine.”

“Always yours, darling.” 

John breathes out before circling his arms around Paul’s neck and buries his head in the junction between his shoulder and throat. Paul presses another kiss to the side of his head, focusing on his intent now as he grips hard on the curves of John’s body, one hand on his waist, the other on his thigh. He keeps him still, lets him take what he gives.

Paul ruts up into John’s cock, the come drooling out of both of their hardness making the slide both rougher and easier. The damp cloth intensifies every bit of friction, and Paul finds himself gasping. John’s breaths are huffed and choked out, like he’s drowning right beside him, and Paul presses his heels hard on the floor as he pushes up and _up._

“Shit, ‘m close,” John bites out, body slumping against his. His heaviness forces a gasp out of Paul’s lungs, but that soon morphs into one of pleasure, something that fogs the air in white and burns their skin like heated metal. John is feverish against him, and his hands, they’re _scorching_ , scrabbling for some hold of Paul to perhaps ground himself. 

“Do it, love, c’mon,” Paul hisses, voice throaty as he chases his own release, hips pistoning. “I’m right here with ye, come on.”

“Paul, Paul— _Paul—_ “ John lets out little sobs, a staccato of the monosyllabic word that Paul never wants to hear from _anyone_ else but John ever again, wrenched out from headiness and the pulsating vibrations of upcoming release. 

Paul grips harder, hoping to send flares of blunt pain upon the edges of John’s pleasure, because Paul waits for him. He _always_ does. He wants to see John lose himself in that gorgeous way of his, always so breathtaking in such an _ordinary_ way, though he always leaves Paul gasping at the beauty in his arms. He wants to hear John’s choked up sighs, low-pitched groans, the wrenched, almost wanton moans that spikes up the desire that fastens the rush of Paul’s blood. John doesn’t grip, he _claws_ his way through, pressing those bitten nails against Paul’s scalp, his shoulder blades, his spine, his arms, his thighs. John marks his territory in the planes of Paul’s skin, leaving redness upon redness, indigo roses blooming beneath his collarbones, staccato marks that line the curve of John’s teeth. 

He always returns the brashness with equal fervour, leaving bruises upon his wrists and throat per John’s requests, even though he sometimes prefers to caress John tender. John loathes it, though, said it made him feel like a blushing, squirming bird being touched for ‘the sodding first time.’ Paul just laughed, mind wandering upon the bewitching way John always squirms _just so,_ in no way girlish, but charming all the same. John would writhe _slower,_ leaving more time for Paul to marvel upon the sight of his breathy, gasping, moaning lover, eyes closed shut as he loses himself in the waves of pleasure that racks upon his bones and boils his blood. 

Suddenly John’s fingers grapple and his body turns rigid, thighs tensing like a bow strung tight. Paul knows what it means. He knows it a bit too well. 

He winces as John bites into his throat, staking his claim there somehow, and releases as dampness coats their middle and a broken, high-pitched moan croaks itself out of John’s wrecked throat. 

Paul lets out a desperate groan, thighs twitching as John rides out his orgasm, eyes closed as he realises that he’s still very much hard between them. John lets out a small sound when he realises so, before hurriedly spitting into the palm of his hand and sticking his hand inside his pants to fist his prick and piston him to his release. The sudden touch makes Paul gasp, eyes popping open as he squirms, biting back a groan that threatens to crawl out of his throat. 

He’s pulsating, body burning like a fuse. He bucks up. He moves. He ruts. He lets his head roll back into the seat, feeling his fringe poking into his half-lidded eyes. He doesn’t care. 

It is black. And then bright red. And then white. Stark white. 

Paul’s vision blurs as he shuts his eyes close, lip bitten down raw in an effort to tamper down the sob that wretches itself out of his chest when the feeling washes over him like a freight train. More, more, _more_ —and then it ends. He reaches the top, and slowly falls down from the height. 

John’s hand is on his head, patting it gently like a comforting figure that looms over him. His head is muted grey, eyes misty with the remnants of unshed tears, and without realising it, he leans closer to John’s warm touch. It guides him to the ground, making the fall less painful. His feet are there now, the curling of his toes subsiding as the tension releases from his bones. The grip of his hand on John’s body turns gentle—a caress. 

He presses a kiss on John’s forehead; he cannot help it with his head being so close to his lips. He smiles against the silk-soft hair, inhaling his scent. 

There they lay, gasping for air in the cramped space, breathing in each other’s oxygen and suffocated by the fumes. Their bodies are damp, fabric sticking to their skin as they remain in silence, trying to slow down their rapid breathing. Paul’s lost all feeling of his two feet not only as caused by the pleasure, but by the heaviness of John sitting above him, seemingly reluctant to leave as he rests his head on Paul’s shoulder, the gentle huffs of his breath tickling the base of Paul’s damp neck. 

He brushes a strand of John’s mussed up hair, keeping it tucked behind his ear even though his hair has been recently cut short. He likes the way it feels against the skin of his fingers. He likes the way the strands fall like auburn waves, casting the gathered pieces of Paul’s heart ashore from the delectable destruction that he has caused. Paul is in ruins, but he never knew that chaos can feel _this_ beautiful.

As he looks down, he sees John’s eyes fluttering close like a curtain falling upon the stage to end the show that is the effortless way his beauty seems to show itself, a smile tugged at the corner of his rose lips. Paul bites back a smile of his own, not wanting to give his lover the satisfaction. But John knows anyway, he always does, as Paul feels him swatting a weak hand against his shoulder. 

“What’s that for?” Paul giggles, nuzzling his cheek into the damp softness of John’s hair. His lover purrs at the pressure, but he lets out an annoyed groan short after. 

“Why’re ye lookin’ at me?” John slurs out, his voice a slanted whisper that Paul wants to take into the grasp of his lips and keep still. “Bloody perv.”

Paul gasps, feigning scandalous. “‘m not a perv.”

John grins, expression saucy like a cat that just got the cream. “Oh yes you are, Macca. A dirty perv who stares at handsome blokes. And birds too, I suppose.”

“Handsome, huh?” He feels his lip quirk up. One thing to have people say that John’s a “looker”, but it’s _another_ thing to hear his love say it to him, damn aware of his own allure.

“Well, I’m self-confident.” 

Attaboy, Paul wants to say.

“Sure yer just not vain?” he jokes instead, brushing the crooked tip of his finger against the velvet of John’s cheek. The man leans into his touch, just slightly, but it’s enough.

“Nah, I’m self assured.”

“I suppose you are.”

As he presses a kiss on the tip of John’s aquiline nose, he opens his eyes, only to see John staring right at him. He can only smile, sitting back as he lets John hold his hand. Their fingers slot against one another effortlessly, joints moving in their own accord, the calloused tips of their fingers intertwining like the needles of clock meeting at once, its tips pointing at the number _12_ above that signals midnight, as the sky outside lowers and lowers, engulfing them in darkness that quiets the world. 

“So you promise me?”

“Promise ye what?” John quirks a brow.

“That you’ll let me go through this thing together? You and me?”

“A shag and yer mind’s _still_ not off that?”

Paul’s stomach drops, and the pendulum halts in the middle, bearing and straining with the weight. The deadpan manner in which John uttered those words make all the feelings in his limbs lose themselves. It strikes upon his head like a hammer, turning him concave, taunting him from the wishful thinking that led him to this. “Are you joking?” he sputters. His mind goes into a frenzy, feeling something akin to ice cold water being splashed upon his entire being. “Did you do all that to get me mind off things?!”

A beat. 

“John, please—”

His words are abruptly cut off by the press of John’s chapped lips against his own, the swollen surface plush right against his raw and bitten pair. Paul is above ground, mind empty except for the feeling of John right in his arms, _safe,_ like they’ve always meant to be. They keep each other safe, and Paul thinks he’ll fall if he doesn’t have John’s calloused fingers against his own skin, and he thinks he’d rather die than to lose the feeling of John’s waist beneath his hands. 

John kisses tender, like he’s _saying_ something through the gentle contact, and Paul deciphers. 

When he pulls away, Paul is awestruck. His tongue freezes, lips parted but unmoving. 

“I was joking, you bloody degenerate. Well, I can’t think of any other person to go through this shite with. So yes. It’s gonna be you, Paul. I’ll always be with you. I will never know, for the life of me, why you’d wanna stay. Yer wastin’ yer life.” Paul shoots him a pointed look. “Oi, quit it. I’m serious. I mean it. I don’t get why you’d _want_ ‘ta be with me. . .It’s one of the mysteries of the sodding world, really.” 

_Joking_ , of course, Paul thinks to himself. Only John could make a ‘joke’ sound like a calling for a case of heart attack. 

“Can’t imagine this sodding world without you in my sodding life.”

John visibly bites down a grin, cheeks high with a bright scarlet flush. Beautiful. 

“Bastard,” he remarks. 

“ _Your_ bastard.” 

“Still a bastard.” 

“Would you rather this bastard leave?”

John pauses. Paul stares. 

“No,” John lets out then, a simple monosyllabic word that has the ability to send a rush of odd relief in Paul’s lungs. He holds his breath instead, not wanting to break the gentle tension. “No, ‘a don’t want ye to leave.” 

“Then I won’t,” Paul confesses. “Cos I don’t want to. Cos I want _you_.” 

John looks up at him, eyes wide and reflective with a kind of vulnerability that Paul scarcely sees in his lover. It wretches his chest and makes the muscles in his stomach tighten, filled with the underlying, blunt pressure of desire and intent to _never_ see John hurt. 

“Then never leave me.” 

“I won’t,” he says. And silence overtakes them once more, cloaking their spent figures as they stare ahead, watching the dull grey moon lay unmoving, its ambient light gleaming upon them and casting shadows upon the dashboard. The hills are quiet, dark green grass swaying with the wind. The cities are dead silent, sleeping, like the two of them should be doing instead of this. But Paul likes it. Likes _this._ He likes being in the almost-dark, being in his fogged up car. 

Being with John. 

He threads his fingers into the damp strands of John’s auburn hair and brings his head towards him, lips pressing themselves upon the plane of John’s forehead. It remains quiet between them—still. The sound of Paul’s lips against John’s skin briefly echoes. A reminder. A mark. A point that colours the space between them bright. 

“I won’t leave you ever,” Paul confesses, like he will always do, over and over again until his lips become too stiff to form those vowels and consonants. 

John breathes against him. Silent still. 

He nods, just so. 

Somehow, that is all Paul needs. 

In that movement of his head. Two times, repeated. The way his neck bows _just_ so. Maybe it doesn’t mean anything. (Or maybe it does.) Maybe they’re alright. (Or maybe they’re not.) The wicked side of his mind leads the way to his own hesitance, his own delusions, his own distorted views of the outcome to their choices. But the thing is, he’s not a mind reader. Not a time traveler. Not a sage. He doesn’t know the future; only the past that catalysed the present. And this present shall be _their_ past, answering the questions that they long to find the truth in. 

He looks at John now. Casts his eyes on him, though it’s never hard to do. John’s being is a temptation to his own, each word he says is a siren’s call, each look a firework, each movement a ruckus—a spectacle. A beautiful mess. He supposes he himself is not that orderly, but perhaps, he thinks, perhaps _that_ is why they fit against each other so well. As if they have always meant to be—like dew on damp leaves in the morning, the A side of a record to its B side, the banging of a drum to its bass line. 

Like the stars in the blackened skies and the flies surrounding the cold grass of the hills that belong to them, for now—they’re meant to be together. 

And in this moment, as he cradles John’s cheeks in his trembling hands, Paul falls in love all over again. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> so. did ye fancy that?


End file.
